FORGET that telephone hookup, we who pay New York City taxes are ac tually living in PragueIraqParisDC. We think we’re the capital of the world, center of the Universe? No. We are Planet Earth.

Walk our streets. English is the second language. And if you count New Yorkese – “Yo, man . . . whassup” – it’s the third.

Two days ago a lady, speaking some gibberish that Berlitz doesn’t teach, asked me directions to someplace. I tried but couldn’t understand her. When I wasn’t able to help, she turned in disgust and mumbled to her companion: “She no know English.”

Anyone notice that our previous 7 p.m. dining hour has crept to 7:30? Then 8? Why? South Americans have swarmed in. Their normal dining hour is 11. Now you go into a restaurant and it crowds up at 10 o’clock.

And conversation between New Yorkers going out for dinner? “So how about we do Turkish. We did Turkish last week. OK, French. Why French? We need something different for a change. So let’s have Indian. I don’t know, I was thinking maybe Mexican.” The thought of an Idaho baked potato/Maine lobster/New York sirloin/Georgia peach/California orange/Louisiana gumbo/Texas chili/Maryland crab cake/Iowa corn/New England clam chowder/Southern fried chicken never occurred to them.

Never mind the housing and mortgage situation. Look for a condo in Manhattan and you’ll learn everything’s taken by Europeans. With America’s currency having hiccups, they think $12 million two-bedroom apartments are bargains.

Add to that our influx last week for the U.N. (Useless Nations). A local citizen, who pays taxes here and owns a super-expensive apartment here and had a bad leg, discovered his car was waved blocks away so some yutz from Uruguay surrounded by a detail straight out of a Bruce Willis B-movie could commandeer the whole front of his building. He fumed: “Why kill our whole city? Why not stick this nonproductive organization out in a field someplace – like in Utah – where it doesn’t bother anybody?”

Sen. Chuck Schumer‘s office arranged for my first-ever visit to the Federal Reserve Bank downtown, where they store a few thousand billion in gold bullion. I wasn’t planning to make a deposit or anything. Just that periodically I enjoy experiencing the history of my country, my state, my city and whatever makes us what we are. I arrived at the appointed time Friday. Boy, could The Fed not have cared less. Liberty Street was filled with black SUVs and dudes wearing black shades and black clothes behind windows tinted black. Menacing guys with guns and earpieces, all whispering into their shirt cuffs, ringed the block. And all for some jerk in an ill-fitting suit with plastic gum-soled shoes from some fourth-rate country so small it’s standing in line to dare shake its fist at the United States.

They were nearly frisked and slammed against a wall when they wanted to use the men’s room. Why? Because the Bruce Willis extras were protecting some ambassador who probably lives in a tent in his native city and comes from some junk place that pays his salary with money borrowed from us. Why? What is that?!

They screw up traffic so we who live here have been late for every appointment. They park in our parking spots, pay no taxes, are immune from all illegalities, live free, eat free, smoke free, are partied and feted and lauded and stay – on the arm – in the best, greatest, thrillingest, most exciting city in the whole world with the sole job of then peeing on us.

And our cops protect them? Our city guards them? Our officials bow to them? Our citizens place second to them? Our TV gives them prime time? Our universities give their madmen a platform? What the hell for? How is this possible? Can you remotely imagine that working in reverse?

How about we find a way to keep them out of here forever. Or at least out of New York. Or at least out of Manhattan. Or at least out of Midtown. Or at least off the street where my hairdresser is.